Frustrated that his time to think is so often disturbed, a local cockroach—who lives under your bed—is reported as saying this morning that he thinks “you need to turn it down a notch” when it comes to “the fucking.”

“I’m not really even sure what they’re doing up there half of the time,” Timothy, the local cockroach told Nonsense this morning. “Doesn’t anyone have any respect for their neighbors anymore?”

Timothy informed Nonsense that the typical hours you “fuck very loudly” range anywhere from 6pm to 5am which we were able to confirm with the local snake that lives in your shower drain, Louis.

“To be honest, sometimes I don’t even know if there’s another person up there,” Louis said, coiling himself into a more comfortable position. “Sometimes it sounds like there are several people up there. Maybe they’ve got some weird freaky masturbatory habits going on, or there’s some sort of strange orgy ring at work here? I don’t know. It isn’t my job to know their business, I just want the noise to end.”

When asked if he plans to take any legal action, Timothy merely shrugged.

“All I’m concerned about is… well, I’m going back to school to get a law degree. I do classes online. I’ve got to be up really late some nights writing massive papers or doing loads of research, and don’t you think that maybe you could be a little more considerate of me?”

At press time, the local fly that lives in your pantry and the local rat that lives under your gross-ass washing machine were reportedly gathering other residents of your house—such as the termite that lives in your doorframe, and the centipede that’s taken a liking to your right slipper, which is weirdly always damp enough for him to be comfortable in—to sign a petition proposing your abstinence.

The “Ghost in the Shell” remake starring Scarlett Johansson comes out in two weeks, and expectations are high. The Rupert Sanders-directed film is set to be the biggest anime live-action adaptation since “Aeon Flux”. However, with fame has come controversy; many people are up in arms concerning the film’s Asian protagonist being played by a white Hollywood actress. Always at the forefront of both art and clickable public debate with a high potential for shareability, we, here at Nonsense Humor, are just as excited as you are, and so to gain some insight on the upcoming release we went to our resident culture expert: a weathered old man who lives by the sea.

Howard Daniels is a seventy-six year old lighthouse owner from a nondescript but somewhat disarming town somewhere in Maine (maybe around the place where Stephen King lives or something). We spoke to him about the film – well, he shouted at us from the top of his decrepit, slightly menacing watchtower, the light pointing out to sea through the haze like a ghost.

“Yeah, I’m dumb fucking stoked, my dude,” Daniels was quoted as shouting at our reporter from the parapet. “I read every issue of the manga when I was living in Japan after The War, and I loved the 1995 Mamoru Oshii-directed film. Artificial intelligence, man. That’s some heavy shit.” As huge waves battered the spire from the east, spraying our reporter with their scenic brutality and throwing him several meters into the air, Daniels admitted that he did understand the problem with Johansson’s role in the film.

“Yeah, I can understand why people are upset,” he roared above the surf, his voice the ocean itself. “It kind of feels like they’re taking roles away from Asian actors, which I can understand is broke as fuck. I don’t want to support that kind of behavior, you know?”

Daniels admitted that he will likely not see the movie in theatres for this reason, and revealed that he would “probably end up torrenting it or something, I dunno”.

I’ve seen the worst of it. Got a bad case of rug burn from one of them Velcro casings a while back during the Siege of Vander Poel. I owe my life thrice-fold to Ol’ Doc Stitches for patching up my flaky meat-wrapper…on more than one occasion. I’ve got a scar in the shape of my cousin Doyle’s fake leg on my lower back.

The point is, Chris, I know my shit, and you totally could not have hit me from all the way back there. The only blaster with that kind of range is a Longshot™ and that’s before you even take into account the wind, my amazing reflexes, or the Coriolis effect. The report back from intel states that our opposition doesn’t carry that kind of armament, and even if they did have access to that class of hardware – I told you I didn’t feel it hit me, you tool!

Listen, greenhorn, when I joined up with The Triple B (Bloody Blaster Battalion) I had no idea. First day in basic they made me disassemble a pair of Nerf Doomlands 2169 Negotiators™, using just a couple of moldy darts like chopsticks. Sarge spat in my mouth when I said I didn’t know that zombies were the resident bad boyz. He spat right into my open mouth. But I grew to love the taste and subtle pulpy texture of his residual oat-based knowledge nectar. I was like a baby bird, gleaming scraps of blaster discipline from Sarge’s salivary surprise. I know my shit, ya little Krumph.

I don’t care that you think you shot me. Look at me, cadet. Take a deep whiff of me with your sight sponges. Do you see that I’m more greased up than a baking sheet full of Crisco? I’m caked in the goddamned stuff. The purpose of this is two-fold:

I think my salamander has really started respecting me more since I became such a slick muchacho.

The bullets fucking glide off you, Chris.

Chris, do you even give a shit about accuracy in this realistic dart-based war simulation? Because, judging by your utter lack of grease, mud, or any sort of dart-proof lube, I’d wager that you didn’t even account for non-Newtonian drag. Oh no? You didn’t, huh? What a surprise that “Big Piss” Chris here doesn’t even know about muzzle drop OR in flight trajectories once that dart is out of the muzzle.

My ears are attuned, you wempled duck brain of a boy. I can hear a dart whizzing by like the honks of a legion of Canada Geese flying overhead and raining white hot salvation upon the war-grounds. I’ve got the reflexes of a little league baseballer on two Redbulls and a couple bumps of those sweet sweet… battle salts.

Here’s the deal, Chris: I’ll play the game with you, but I don’t have to… did you… did you just shoot me? Point blank? No way, I called a time-out earlier. This shit doesn’t count. I won’t be toppled, let alone degreased, by an outsider. Don’t make me. I HATE this game.

Hofstra University offers over seven different student-run clubs and organizations on campus, the newest of which is the prestigious Vaping Dutchmen.

Competitive vaping, a sport which many would call “not a sport”, offers a welcoming environment to this group of diverse, passionate, white males.

“I used to be nobody.” says Dutchman team captain, Keith Russo, exhaling a massive cloud of Cinnamon toast crunch, the winter wind blowing the soft baby hairs on his exposed legs. “I was the empty plastic bag drifting across the street that catches the corner of your eye and kind of startles you until you realize it’s an inanimate object and you’re a worthless fool. Yes, I was once adopted by Bon Jovi, but that kind of thing doesn’t last, y’know? Vaping gave me purpose.”

There are currently four members of the Vaping Dutchmen: Russo, Eric Campbell, Greg Johnson, and the Dark One Who Hurts And Maims. However, sophomore Campbell said that he might be able to get his friend’s roommate’s little brother to join if they start bringing snacks to the weekly meetings.

“Creating a brand is really important for us. Other students see me and they’re like, y’know, ‘There he is!’, right?” said Russo, adjusting his ever present snapback so the little man in his buzzcut cannot escape. He has not seen the sun.

Personal style is an essential aspect of the vape lifestyle, for him. His daily T-shirt and gym shorts pairing separates him from the other members, who each wear a T-shirt and gym shorts, respectively. The trio can often be seen moving around campus as an inseparable pack. This is more out of necessity than anything else; if one constituent were to break ranks, he would immediately lose half of his life force. That kind of damage should be avoided at all costs, according to the Vape God Handbook.

“Vaping changed my life,” freshman Johnson says, hands shakily dropping fluid into his rig. “I used to smoke cigarettes. Now I don’t. I have made a complete, 360 degree turn around. My life is different now. I’m better. I’m a better father, and a better friend.”

The Vaping Dutchman are preparing to enter their first of many high-stakes competitions. Individuals blow vapor into the air and the longest distance achieved gets an amount of points, or something like that. The highly coveted first prize includes a trophy, a smaller trophy, assorted dollar coins, and 10% off your next purchase. Second place receives a used (re: empty) gift card to a local smoke shop. Everyone else goes to The Pit.

“Do I think we can win? Eh,” said Russo, clearly bursting with optimism.

Allegedly, a team flag is in the works, so any designers who can “hold their own” are specifically invited to the next practice session.

“A solid blue background. Maybe #5733FF would be a nice shade. Or #191970. And two vapes blowing smoke from the corners, but their clouds intertwine and become this bitchin’ dragon, but the dragon is also vaping. Within the eyes of dragon you can see each team member, but when you look closer, we’re just people-shaped mods. Aren’t we all people-shaped mods in the end, anyways? Just a few ideas,” the Dark One suggested.

Still, every student of the Hofstra community is welcome to join this up-and-coming organization. Keep an eye on the Vaping Dutchmen. We wish them the best in their athletic endeavors!

I work hard. People in my life understand this, So get this. I get home late, and my weirdo roommate, he tells me he has just the thing to cheer me up. I get want to grab a nice cold one from the fridge and crawl into bed, but I can’t, because there he is. Standing in the way. I can feel the condensation meeting my fingers. I crave it. I am thinking about this and my eyes are just about to glaze over when he pull out this blu-ray. I don’t know where it came from, and I don’t want to know. He’s really into that anime shit, and I’ve promised him I’d check some out, but honestly, I’m scared. I don’t have the time for big 2D jigglage. I have a girlfriend I’m too tired to talk to, okay? I’m too old for cartoon boobs that refuse to follow Newtonian physics, where the nipple can be fully penetrated by a large manhood. This time was different, though. I could tell that he wouldn’t leave me alone unless I gave Ponyo a shot.

I was ready. Taking a cursory glance at the blu-ray case, I saw a little girl, and I saw fish. That’s all I managed to see, and I thought to myself, ain’t this illegal? I know what this anime business is about. Seeing the ocean life on the cover only confirmed my biases about where this journey was headed. Knowing what he’s into–Samurai Champloo (which I think is Japanese for coitus), Kingdom Hearts, Neon Genesis Evangellier (even jellier than what?), I got ready for the evening that I assumed he had planned for us. I got the baby oil ready and lathered the entire bottom half of my body like a hybrid of man and seal. My socks stayed on of course, to preserve heat.

It’s to preserve heat.

I popped that bad boy in hiding behind 7 different proxies (which is what my roommate calls our blinds) so the POTUS couldn’t spot me finna engage in some solid waifu lechery. From what I’d gathered by right wing people on twitter, though, the president loves anime–judging by his supporters avi’s so I wasn’t too worried, when I hit play. I see Disney’s logo upfront, and I nearly cry. Have they stooped this low?

But here’s the crazy thing.

Not a single nipple. Not one. Buddy, you could put a magnifying glass up against the screen and I promise you that wouldn’t help find any nipples because there aren’t any. No inhuman amounts of ejaculate being funneled into genitalia, no swelling of the gastrointestinal system without any sort of health related repercussions and not one, not one, slippery bad boy with suction cups for fingers. Tentacles, in case you didn’t get it. The movie takes place in the sea, from what I had gathered, so that seemed like a given.

Instead, what I did get was beautiful handpainted scenery, mindblowing cinematography of a breathtaking scope, and a renewed sense of purpose, with a sense that the world isn’t as cold as I make it out to be living this day to day life I call a mediocre waste of time and breath. When my roommate said that the film had strong female characters, I assumed he was judging by the amount of newtons worth of force their little buttholes could negotiate. I now realize that he was referring to the depth of their character, which is–in a way–far more important. This film made me want to call my girlfriend.

The tale of a little-girl-fish thing helping her newfound family find love, is exactly what I would expect of Disney. I didn’t even get an erection. How fucking cool is that?

Apparently Hayao Miyazaki has a long history of making wonderous pictures that explore relatable themes, in ways that we are too busy down at the mill to consider. How was I supposed to know that Howl was the name of the protagonist of Howl’s Moving Castle, instead of just a description of the sounds buttstuff creates?

How the fuck was I supposed to know Ponyo wasn’t hentai?

Japanese, check.

Female protagonist, check.

That’s about all I got. You hear that, you think hentai. This was not that. 0/10 hentai, 10/10 film.

I owe my roommate an apology. Not just for shunning all of his recommendations prior, but for begrudgingly stripping nude in his presence. Tomorrow, I might even check out Spirited Away! Look, was I a little disappointed when I learned that Tina Fey hadn’t in fact lended her voice to a piece of animated pornography? Sure. Sure as I’ve got toes on my feets.

I do not have toes on my feet. But seeing her out of character, in the role of a caring mother just trying to make sure her family can get by under the weight of the judgement of others made me consider how I’d been treating the mother of my own children, whom I have been separated from, for just so long. And that’s great. There is no other result that I would prefer to come from laying slick on a trashbag tarp of my own preparation. That’s just grand.

This has been kind of nice actually. I feel as though the power of friendship is actually pretty important. Ponyo taught me that. Maybe there are things in life more important than playing five hand poker with the baloney pony.

Ah who am I kiddin? I’m gonna go crack open a cold one and watch some busty beauties get shafted by failed government experiments. Consensually.

In retrospect, I gotta say that my intentions, at least, were good. I had a good head on, had my hopes high and a chipper attitude about the whole thing. And honestly, I think everything that happened really brought me and my son together: as father and son, and as bros, and as brothers.

I think it was last Tuesday that I first heard about this DMT business. I had just gotten home from the daily grind to find my boy, Josh, sprawled out on the couch reading a comic book. Scooby-Doo Apocalypse, by the look of it. Third issue.

“Hiya there, Josh,” I said.

“Father,” he replied.

I took a seat in the armchair next to my son and watched him for a little bit. His favorite Diplo shirt was looking a little tight on him, and I thought about getting him a new one.

“What’re you up to this weekend?” I asked. “Anything fun?”

“Major Lazer concert,” he said shortly. I smiled: these kids and their boy bands.

“Say, Sport, whaddya think about us doing something together this weekend, maybe before your little show? Your mother has the girls coming by for Mahjong, and boy, I do not wanna be in the way for that!”

“Go away, Dad,” said my sweet boy.

The gears in my head started turning: there had to be something that would get that boy off of the couch besides that nu-disco he’d been listening to. I mean, hell, you can’t Hustle to that! And then it clicked. Just like that. I remembered one of the interns, Dennis, talking about it in the office, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, it was worth a try.

“Whaddya say we try a DMT?”

Josh’s head shot up. “What did you say?”

“Y’know, DMT. Isn’t that what you kids are all tryin’ these days?”

He looked skeptical. “You wanna try…DMT?” he asked me, slowly.

“Well sure!”

His face started to brighten—reel ‘em in, Bill!—and I sat back, proud of myself.

“Dad, if you know where we can get some, that’d be awesome,” Josh said, beaming.

It warmed me to my core to see such a big grin on my boy’s face. “How about this weekend? You and me, before your concert—we can go around the corner and pick one up for each of us.”

Josh nodded. “You’re cool as shit, Dad.”

That, I think, made me happier than anything. “Of course, my boy. Just tell me what’s on it so I know I won’t be allergic to anything.”

I sat there in silence. I didn’t understand. What else could it have been? Dennis was a good kid; always showed up to work on time and dressed neatly. Sure, he only fetched coffee, but I didn’t think he was an incompetent young man. Did Josh know something I didn’t?

Josh continued to stare at me, smile nearly gone, then buried his head in his comic book. I went upstairs and closed the door, retreating to my bed for a moment of reflection. What did my son think DMT was? Some crazy new dance move? A drug? I shivered. Not my sweet boy. I decided there was only one thing I could do.

I tried it. I went to the guy at the gas station, and he got awfully tight in the rear about the whole ordeal. Asked me how I knew about DMT. And then asked me for way too much money—twenty dollars for something to eat?—so I decided to take my business elsewhere. Also, he wanted me to follow him to his truck, and I have work in the morning. So I said, “no, Sir!”

Everything everyone said about it was—pretty true, I suppose. My conscience was radically altered, I guess. I was sweaty, I vomited, and I cried. A lot. It certainly made me go into my own head a little bit, but I think it was some bad mayo that was responsible for all of those hallucinations people talked about. They didn’t mention this online, though, so I will say this: make sure you get the roll toasted. Otherwise it makes for a pretty soggy mid-afternoon lunch. But overall, give the McDMT a shot: you won’t be disappointed.

Hidden Fences has become one of the most #woke movies of the past decade. Honestly guys, I’m #shook. After I watched it, I felt the warmth of Martin Luther King Jr. as my third eye opened. It’s so woke guys. Like Malcolm-X-became-my-spiritual-guide woke, but like only when he said violence was bad. Like I went home and ghost wrote seven Buzzfeed articles about this movie woke. Ever since #OscarsSoWhite, writers, producers, and Hollywood actors have taken enormous strides to ensure that their audience not only receives more diverse stories, but that said stories are treated with the respect and admiration that they deserve.

I stumbled upon this movie by wandering through my local refurbished neighborhood, hoping to find some cool new place to pretend I discovered. I came across this new alternative movie theater. At first they were hesitant to let me in, so obviously I climbed in through the window and claimed the land as my own. This hidden gem has the appearance of apartment, featuring a small kitchen with a moderately stocked fridge and some family photos. Their patrons feel more at home by providing old couches to sit on, and instead of a screen, there is a small television. The owner of the theater was super nice, and offered to bring me jewelry and money. The youngest of the customers began to sob obnoxiously. The environment was clearly designed to force visitors to make bonds with the other audience members, forcing millennials to take a break from the phones and connect on a deeper level. I normally give local spaces 5 out of 5 stars, but the broken glass and crying children kind of killed the vibe and ruined my experience. 😦

Hidden Fences is the crime story, similar to the likes of the 2015 Oscars, 2017 Grammys, or that blackface Othello movie. Stanley, played by Denzel Washington, is framed for a crime he did not commit. He is sent to a detention center called ‘Camp Green Lake’, where he and the other inmates are forced to dig numerous holes in the desert every day. As Stanley comes to terms with his life, he uncovers the mystery of the holes and makes some friends along the way. The film has an incredible star studded cast, including Octavia Spencer, playing the mysterious and captivating Madame Zeroni, and Taraji P. Henson as the Warden. These actors’ names are just pronounceable enough so you’ll feel cultured when you remember them, and you won’t feel racist if you can’t get them right. There hasn’t been a story so captivating since Hamilton. I would know, I’ve seen it live, and I’ve memorized all the raps.

Inspired by true events, and directed by Tyler Perry, this movie had will have you whipping and nae nae-ing on the edge of your seat. This movie is so bad and bougie that your ‘boxer braids’ will look even more fleek than they did when you entered the trap house. On a scale of ‘My African American friend over there’ to ‘Living the Life of Pablo’, watching this movie will totally get your one black friend to give you ‘the pass.’ Do👏🏻not👏🏻watch👏🏻unless👏🏻you👏🏻are👏🏻ready👏🏻to👏🏻be👏🏻woke👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

HEMPSTEAD, NY – Week after week, students walk their little legs through Hofstra University’s Sondra and David S. Mack Student Center. At the end of its red brick atrium, there is a beacon: HOFCAST, or, if you don’t know, that tiny little television mounted above the entrance to the Unispan. On that tiny little television, Hofstra University projects poorly made PowerPoint slides to remind students of events they will never attend. It is on this tiny little baby television that every week, Hofstra students lay eyes upon the announcements for guest lectures by Jet Tila, or Thai-re Food Tuesday, and… what’s this? – can you guess it? no? – yet another basketball game. Another basketball game that stands to remind us all that, yes, despite all odds: Hofstra basketball.

It prevails.

From inside the David S. Mack Sports and Exhibition Center, I can hear the ticking of a clock across the room and the screeching of basketball shoes across the floor. In the stands, there are bodies with mouths open, the scattered pockets of friends and Tinder matches standing in awe, in awe of the Hofstra Basketball. Oh, yes! Oh, yes! They are doing it: The Basketball. Who would have thought? Look! They run up and down the court. How brave! They throw the ball and make the swish. They ziggity zaggity, juke, jive, volleyball, basketball, cricket tall, lemon small between players. Wow! They smack the ball, YES, smack it, out of hands and into their own, and whoosh it to the other side of the court. They are doing it! They are fearless and strong, heroes to us all! Good for them! Despite all odds! Despite calf muscles long-since atrophied! Despite opening for each game’s headliner, Free T-Shirts. Despite…everything.

It triumphs.

Hofstra Basketball has been developing little sweat drops, little sweat drops upon its head since Your Honor, High Lord, King Queen, President Stuart Rabinowitz dissolved the football team into itty bitty pieces after having gone 0-23. Hofstra Basketball, it fills the void with aplomb! It has enough school spirit for the entire university. Hofstra Basketball goes. Goes each week, so we do not have to. With clammy hands and flames in their fast heart rates, Hofstra Basketball has continued to prove, week after week, that it will be the victorious team on campus. Who is this Quidditch? What is this Wrestle? None but Hofstra Basketball.

A man, early 50s, moves swiftly behind an L-shaped counter. Students at Hofstra University see him almost every day, and while nobody is quite sure of his story, many have told him theirs. Who is this figure who is so deeply trusted, and yet even more deeply shrouded in mystery? Well, even that seems to be a point of controversy. Despite disagreements on a proper title, it’s not uncommon for Hofstra students from all walks of life to find themselves huddled around him in-between classes.

“Oh, you’re doing a story on the Calkins cat! I love that little guy!” said one student, who requested anonymity upon learning that we were in fact not doing a story on the Calkins cat, and that said cat is definitely not a boy.

“Oh, you’re doing a story on that that big dude that works at B.Y.O.B.in Bits and Bytes! I love that little guy!” said another student who, despite getting the subject of the story correct, also pushed pretty hard to have his name left out. Sorry Josh Newman, but we only get one per article.

While opinions on the guy from Bits — a.k.a. the head honcho behind one of the safer places to eat cooked meat on Hofstra’s storied campus — run the gamut, most students view him as tough but fair, a stern father-figure who’s made all the difference in their college experience thus far.

“I go to him for advice at least once a week,” said Hofstra student Jerrod Lattimore. “He just always knows what to say. Whether it’s hollering ‘Burger! I got a Cheeseburger here!’ and subsequently getting a bunch of spit-sweat on all the buns, or just staring right through me altogether for a solid minute-and-a-half when I ask him if I should drop the class I have with my ex, the big guy always knows how to push my buttons. I don’t where I’d be without him.”

Similar sentiments were shared by many Hofstra students. Time and time again, they said, his character has stood out to them as something worth noting.

“He’s always there when you need someone to just vent to,” said Casey Newton, a sophomore at Hofstra. “If my friends are ever busy and I need someone to listen to my problems and grunt in response, the guy from Bits is the first person I go to. Honestly, he’s more attentive than most of the guys I’ve dated, even if he does mostly just mumble the whole time about the grilled chicken still not being burnt enough. ‘I need more char,’ he always says. ‘I gotta have that char.’”

“Don’t get me wrong, the manager guy from Dutch Treats is pretty cool in his own right” said Hofstra senior Dustin Kennedy. “He taught me how to pick up girls with just a look and a smile, and he’s always willing to help me out when I’m low on meal points. But nobody – not even what’s-his-name from HofUSA – has impacted my life the way Bits guy has.”

When reached for comment, the nine-time Hofstra Food Service Employee of the Week had only this to say: “I told y’all I can’t say anything to anybody. Get outta my face with that shit – are you recording this? You want me to lose my job? Go ahead and put me in another one of your little stories. Really, go ahead and see what happens. I will find you.” There’s never a moment’s rest for the hardest working man on Hofstra’s campus. But he likes it that way, and so do we.

Early this morning, sophomore rhetoric student, Stewart Peters, turned heads as he debuted his newest work, an excellent PowerPoint on the importance of interpersonal communication. Peters stole the show by including Word Art, seamless effects, and a “really cool” slide transition, according to sources. Reports are still coming in, but we are hearing that his first slide contained a sampling of “High School Never Ends” by critically acclaimed band Bowling For Soup, as well as several gifs of excited animals, and even a few anime characters dancing suggestively. Sources inside Room 301 of the school of communications are confirming that Peters received a grade of 98, and that his fellow classmates are “not bitter”.

“No, I think Stewart did great,” fellow classmate Amy Adams intimated to Nonsense Humor. “Really fantastic. I mean, I’m the one who showed him how to use Prezi in the first place, so I would appreciate a little credit, but it’s fine I guess. I’m happy for him, really.”

One of Peters’ groupmates, Max Peterson of Wantagh, echoed similar sentiments.

“I just wish he had given us a little more credit, but it’s cool or whatever. I mean, we all got the same grade, so I guess it’s cool. Whatever, I mean.”

This isn’t the first time Peters has turned heads with his presentations; in freshman year, he debuted a fifteen-slide PowerPoint presentation on metamorphic rocks.

“I mean, I’m just happy to be out there providing important information to the people,” Peters said. “Does it really matter who gets the credit? The important thing is that the rest of the class learns something new. I just hope Professor Simmons liked it.”